


The Letter

by MDJensen



Series: Honest Songs/Distillery 'verse [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Plenty of Cuddles, also Aramis makes tea, which is good because d'Art really needs them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-05-31 22:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6490558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan receives some news about his old regiment.</p><p>Oneshot set a few months after <i>Honest Songs</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> For Ebm36, who wanted big brother Athos, and the_other_sandy, who wanted d'Art dealing with his emotions from the war....
> 
> My very sincerest thanks to all of you who continue to read and encourage the continuations of this 'verse. It really means a lot to me, especially now that my writing is so slow-moving... if you feel like you have a moment when the fic is done, please read the end notes to hear a little more. (If you care to! If not, I take no offense, promise!)

The end of harvest had always been the busiest time for letters. Porthos received slews of them weekly, regarding brandy orders; Aramis’ family, who wrote him prolifically year-round, sent a renewed flurry of well-wishings in time for his birthday. D’Artagnan had post from Gustave as well, and from Gascon friends he’d made on the road with Porthos.

Athos himself received the least mail, but this hardly bothered him; as dearly as he loved Aramis’ family-- and indeed, they were practically his own-- all those he really needed were already at the distillery with him.

So instead he lazed on the grass as the other three opened their letters from town. Aramis had a belated birthday letter from a cousin he hadn’t seen recently; Porthos had two business correspondences, and included in one of them a letter from an innkeeper’s sister, keen that should set aside a little time in his next visit to spend with her. (D’Artagnan cackled cheerfully at this. Aramis, meanwhile, looked the slightest bit on edge, until Porthos leaned over to pat his cheek and soothe, _do I look like a man who’s goin’ anywhere soon_?)

Upon their return from town they’d gone straight up to the hill above the orchards. The sun was just overhead, and all were enjoying the warmth of it, the few hours in the middle of the day when autumn still carried hints of summer. Especially after harvest, it was nice to steal a moment of utter relaxation.

But all this-- the warmth, the comfort, the ease-- fell away, as d’Artagnan finally turned attention to his own letter. He tore into it casually, but his eyes clouded as they scanned the words. It took only a moment for the others to realize that something was wrong, but even as they did, it seemed improper to ask before d’Artagnan was done reading. At last he seemed to finish. It was then that they moved, all shifting closer on the hill as d’Artagnan folded the letter and lifted his head to the orchard.

There were tears in his eyes. At the sight of this Athos could no longer keep himself from touching d’Artagnan’s shoulder, but the man only locked his jaw and shrugged away. “Later,” he grunted. Then he pushed to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane, and made his way down towards the rows of picked-over plum trees.

The others were silent a moment, watching him go. It was Porthos who spoke first, voice tight and sour with worry. “It was from Treville.”

“If the news were to affect the rest of us, he would have said,” Aramis soothed. “I’m sure the minister’s fine.”

A grunt was Porthos’ only reply, but he seemed mollified nevertheless. Mollified, though not unconcerned-- a feeling they all shared, especially as d’Artagnan spent the afternoon in the orchards only to hole himself up in his bedroom when the sun began to set.

He did not come to supper. Aramis took him a bowl of pork and plum stew and a cup of meadowsweet tea; he returned with the untouched food and the news that d’Artagnan was feeling poorly and was going to bed early, though had consented to drink his tea and receive a kiss on the cheek. Aramis, Porthos, and Athos ate in worried silence.

After supper nobody felt up to much; Porthos opened a book but turned no pages, and Aramis sat with them only a fraction of an hour before retiring to his room to pray. Feeling restless and a little helpless, Athos eventually went to bed himself. He couldn’t sleep, though, and merely lay, tapping his feet against each other impatiently; whatever he was waiting for, he didn’t know-- until there came a knock from out in the hall.

The door opened halfway, and d’Artagnan leaned in. Athos’ heart sank at the man’s pinched expression, his bleary eyes; it looked, for a moment, as though the last two years had not happened, and only the filling diet evident in his sturdy frame said otherwise. He looked tired, pained, lost. In spirit this might be the same d’Artagnan who’d arrived at their stoop that windy spring day.

At least, Athos thought, he’d sought company. But instead of entering d’Artagnan stared at Athos’ floor for a moment; then he mumbled “goin’ f’r a walk,” and disappeared again.

By the time the door had closed, Athos was already on his feet.

He stumbled in his rush to pull on his boots and grab his cloak, but still found d’Artagnan only halfway to the barn by the time Athos himself tumbled from the kitchen door. Under the full moon he dashed towards him.

A moment later Athos realized that d’Artagnan had stopped walking; he caught up a moment later and paused by his side. D’Artagnan did not speak, or even glance over. All he did was hand Athos his cane and then hook his arm around Athos’ elbow instead, leaning into him. Athos tucked the cane in his opposite armpit and let d’Artagnan lead.

Generally, Athos knew, d’Artagnan needed the cane for balance much more than for support; tonight, however, it seemed as though the man’s entire weight was bearing down on Athos’ arm. Not that he minded. They walked in slow, matched steps, down the trail towards the woods where they sometimes hunted for rabbits.

Before they could quite get there, though, d’Artagnan grunted quietly and stopped. “Athos,” he huffed, “needa-- si’down--”

It was more falling down than sitting, in the end, but Athos guided him as gently as possible. Safely on the ground, d’Artagnan crumpled. He stretched his bad leg out before him, pulled the other up to his chest and rested his head on his knee, nearly panting.

Athos settled at his side. When he brushed a tentative hand through d’Artagnan’s hair, he found it sweat-damp despite the coolness of the autumn night.

D’Artagnan shivered under his touch. Then he tilted his head a little, just enough to peak out from under the curtain of his bangs. “Don’ feel--” he mumbled. And, with no more warning than this, he ripped away from Athos, crawled a short span forward, and threw up onto the grass.

In the silence after came a ragged gasp. Then d’Artagnan was sick a second time, and did not rise after, staying hunched on all fours with his head down, shaking badly.

Athos knelt beside him, helped him sit up and lean back. Then he tugged his handkerchief from his pocket, where he’d thankfully left it, and used it to wipe the vomit from d’Artagnan’s mouth.

“Sorry,” d’Artagnan whispered, lips moving against Athos’ hand. 

“ _Shh_ , don’t apologize. It’s barely spit. You haven’t eaten.”

“Sorry.” D’Artagnan didn’t seem to hear him, and now, with this second apology, his face crumpled. “Sorry, shit, Athos, I-- I feel really sick.”

“ _Shh_ , Charlot,” Athos murmured. He shucked off his cloak and spread it around d’Artagnan’s shoulders, using it as an excuse to leave his arm there too. The combined effect was immense. D’Artagnan collapsed against him as though all the bones had gone out of his body and lay, half in Athos’ lap, shivering weakly.

They sat in silence a while. Athos took to stroking his thumb across the soft fabric covering d’Artagnan’s bicep. When at long last d’Artagnan spoke, his head seemed clearer. Still the sound of his voice seemed to startle them both.

“Ask me,” he rasped. “Please. I don’t think I can just say it.”

Athos bundled d’Artagnan a little closer. “What happened?”

“Letter from Treville.” D’Artagnan’s voice was harsh, like he’d been crying, though Athos had seen no tears.

“What did the letter say?”

D’Artagnan’s body jerked against his. “Sorry,” he choked. “’m sorry.”

“ _Charlot_ ,” Athos murmured again, lips against d’Artagnan’s hair. “What did the letter say?”

“My-- men. My old unit. They were-- they’re-- oh my God. Sorry. Shit.”

Athos fought back a shiver. “It’s all right, _frair_. You don’t have to say it.”

And then, quite unexpectedly, d’Artagnan laughed.

“No, no! They’re all right.” Now the tears really did come, in a sudden, messy burst; too tired to wipe them away, d’Artagnan just let them stream, down his cheeks and over his jawline, onto his neck and his collar beyond. “They’re all right,” he whispered again. “Christ. They’re all right.”

The icy grip on his heart had not eased, and for one wild moment Athos truly feared for d’Artagnan’s sense of reality. “I don’t understand,” he prompted, hoping he sounded patient.

“Sorry. Sorry, I’m being-- I don’t know why I’m-- they’re all right, Athos. Treville wrote me to say-- how well they’d handled themselves in their last engagement. No casualties. Not one. They’ve all received commendations. And it’s r-really-- it’s something to celebrate, really, but clearly something wro-ong with me because I-- I-- oh, hell.”

Athos said nothing, but waited for the man to find his voice again.

“It’s just so easy to forget the war, you know? Never thought I’d hear myself say that. But here, at the distillery, I wake up a-and I eat porridge and tend my garden and-- and my men, _my men_ , are still fighting, still at war, and someday I know I’m going to get a letter and it isn’t _going_ to be good news and-- I’m always going to think, you know, when that happens, if that happens-- I’m not there. I’m not with them--”

D’Artagnan cut himself off, face pressed to Athos’ chest. Athos kissed his forehead and waited; when d’Artagnan finally spoke, his voice was little more than a mewl.

“Wanna g’home. Ath’s?”

“I’m here, Charlot,” Athos soothed. “Lean on me. I’ll get you back.”

Getting him back to the house was not the easiest of tasks; d’Artagnan leaned on him weakly and yet still faltered at every other step. But Athos did not mind in the slightest. He only held on as securely as he could and walked his brother slowly up the path. At last the distillery came into view.

The moon shone tenderly on the familiar scene: the barn, horse pen, and Aramis’ workspace in the foreground; the gardens, the orchard, and the main house behind. It was here that Athos fixed his eyes. The soft glow of candlelight spilled from the kitchen window, and d’Artagnan gave out a quiet sigh as he saw this as well. The rest of their family awaited them.

D’Artagnan’s leg held up just long enough to get him over the threshold and into the warmth of the kitchen; then he dropped like a sack of cut wheat into Porthos’ waiting arms.

“’m all right,” he mumbled, as Porthos helped him gently to a chair. “All right.”

“He is,” Athos affirmed quietly, glancing at Porthos and Aramis in turn. “No bad news, just a bit of a-- stir.”

Porthos had not left d’Artagnan’s side; now he was brushing back his hair with broad, steady hands. D’Artagnan lay limply against him. Aramis hesitated just a moment, clearly deciding whether or not to prompt for details.

“Tea,” he muttered to himself a moment later, decision made.

He pushed to his tip-toes to retrieve a bundle of lavender from where it hung below a rafter, then crumpled one shaft into a cup and poured in a ladle of steaming water. “Ginger,” Athos prompted. Aramis did not reply, but with a quick glance at d’Artagnan minced a bit of the root and added this to the tea as well. Then he emptied a vial of powder into a small silver spoon.

Aramis set the mug of tea before d’Artagnan, then used this empty hand to rub his back gently. “Valerian,” he murmured. D’Artagnan raised his head and allowed Aramis to slip the spoon into his mouth, managing barely a wince at the bitter taste. “Drink some tea,” Aramis urged. With trembling hands d’Artagnan raised the cup to his mouth and drank, pursing his lips tightly to keep the little lavender buds from coming along with the liquid.

Aramis was not quite done yet. He tore a small slice of bread from leftover from supper, spread a little butter over it, and laid this too before d’Artagnan. “Just a few bites,” he coaxed. “You know an empty belly only makes you feel sicker.”

D’Artagnan nodded tiredly. He set his tea down, managed one bite of bread and then another, then took another sip of tea before he pushed it all away. Porthos was still at his side. Now d’Artagnan leaned once more against him, dead weight against the gentle swell of Porthos’ belly, and closed his eyes.

“Bed,” Aramis said calmly, taking a candle from the table.

Porthos scooped d’Artagnan up as though he were five years old; d’Artagnan clung to Porthos’ neck, buried his face in Porthos’ chest. As a cluster, the four of them went down the hallway to d’Artagnan’s room.

D’Artagnan’s bed was unmade. Athos pulled back the rumpled sheets and quilt and scrambled to the far side, settling himself in to receive d’Artagnan against his chest. Porthos placed him there carefully. The man was still shaking a little, but was present enough to shift into a more comfortable position, face to Athos’ bosom, hand on Athos’ waist.

“I--” he croaked, then sighed against Athos’ collarbone and tried again. “I’m sorry, my friends. I don’t know-- what’s wrong with me.”

“ _Shh_ ,” Aramis breathed, setting his candle on the night table and kneeling on the bed beside them. But d’Artagnan pulled away, facing the room now.

“No, but-- I hate this. Two years here, more than two years, and I’m still-- it’s still so easy for me to-- fall back into this--”

Now Porthos perched on the bed as well. The mattress sank beneath their combined weight, but this circle of protection was just what d’Artagnan needed. Just what they’d all needed, at times.

“Hey,” Porthos murmured. “Did I tell you what happened last week? Don’t think I told you what happened last week.”

With a half-frown, d’Artagnan shook his head.

“Nightmare,” Porthos replied, with a shrug. “’bout those days. Shook meself up so much I woke this one up jus’ to make me tea.” Aramis smiled serenely as Porthos stuck a thumb towards him. “An’ I ain’t picked up a sword for more’n a decade now. Pup, there is no moment that comes when you gotta be flat-out all right. Yeah? It fades, is all. Hey, cry if you needa. You’ll feel better.”

D’Artagnan snorted, rubbing a hand over his watering eyes. “That’s always your advice. Listening to you and Aramis, you’d think you’d solve _anything_ with a-- a hot drink and a good cry.”

“That don’t sound too bad,” Porthos replied, at the same time that Athos teased, “always worked for bad dreams and ruined sketches.”

“Well, I don’t want to cry,” d’Artagnan grumbled. “’m tired and my stomach’s still-- _uck_.” With this declaration he rolled back against Athos, face disappearing into his shirtfront. Athos cuddled him close. Porthos and Aramis shared a tired smile, which they then turned towards Athos.

“We could try to squish in,” Aramis mused. “But I suspect it may be more conducive to sleep if we leave the bed to the two of you.”

“An’ my spine ain’t thirty anymore,” Porthos noted, rubbing his neck absently.

“Get t’bed, then,” d’Artagnan mumbled. “’slate anyway.”

“Actually I believe it’s early, by now,” Athos noted; then, to the others, “we’re all right. Just-- yes, thanks,” he added, as Porthos saw him struggling to reach the quilt and spread it over him and d’Artagnan. “We’re all right,” he repeated, as d’Artagnan nuzzled against him with a sigh.

Porthos ruffled d’Artagnan’s hair fondly, and Aramis leaned over to kiss them both on their brows. “That was a shitting lot of valerian,” d’Artagnan huffed, while Aramis was close enough to hear. “Can’t keep m’eyes open.”

“Don’t bother, then. I’m not sure how much of a view you’ve got now anyway.”

And with this Aramis plucked the candle from the night table, and he and Porthos quietly took their leave.

In the darkness, d’Artagnan shifted against him. Athos let him reposition freely, readying himself for sleep by giving himself a bit of room to breathe, but staying close. When he seemed settled, Athos reached over and brushed his hair back.

D’Artagnan sucked in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “’m a mess,” he drowsed. “N’ver won’t be.”

“Then stop apologizing for it,” Athos replied. “We shall take you as you are.”

“I know.” There was the slightest hint of tears still in his voice, but the heaviness of sleep overpowered it with ease. “Fuck, ‘m tired.”

“Stop fighting it, then. Are you warm enough?”

“Mm.”

For a moment Athos was sure d’Artagnan had fallen asleep; he was silent and still, and his breathing was steady. Then a hand found Athos’ beneath the blankets.

“Still can’ believe it s’mtimes,” d’Artagnan hummed.

“Can’t believe what?”

“That ‘m here. ‘n’ ‘m with you.” His fingers worked sluggishly against Athos’ skin. “’slike maybe I’ll wake up. Back in m’tent.”

“You won’t,” Athos soothed, tightening his hand around d’Artagnan’s. “You’re here. We’re in your bedroom, in your bed. I’m with you, and the others are just down the hall.”

Then d’Artagnan let out a quiet sigh, and Athos’ heart tightened. “Oh. Still feeling like you shouldn’t get it be, _mm_? _Frair_. Charlot. What do you need me to say? That you’ve earned this? You have. And more-- more importantly, you didn’t need to. We’d want to look after you, no matter what the circumstances-- d’Artagnan? Are you asleep?”

The answer sounded a bit like _nnghh_ , and could easily have meant _no_ or _yes_.

A smile spread over Athos’ face, unseen in the darkness. “I’ll tell you later, _mm_? There’ll be time to talk about this later. Just sleep now, _frair_. Everything’s all right. Have you ever heard that silly song Porthos sings? I remember from when I was little. _That funny sun, ‘e’s-- gonna rise tomorrow_ \--”

D’Artagnan’s fingers twitched weakly in Athos’ own, and then Athos felt him settle at last into true sleep. He settled their hands a bit more comfortably, then closed his own eyes.

They’d still not told the others about the contents of the letter, Athos thought to himself, as he felt the fog of sleep beginning to edge towards him as well. That, at least, would need to be done in the morning. This was not a discrete event, not something that would end with the rising of tomorrow’s sun-- but whatever was? What bit of life was not like its own shade of paint, mixing endlessly with all the others, no start, no end, just swirling-- slowly settling--

Sleep was nearly upon him, Athos realized. In those last blurry moments he wriggled closer to his brother, ensuring that their hands were never parted. D’Artagnan’s hair was cast over his features. Beneath it, though, his face was at ease, the same man he’d greeted at breakfast that morning, the same boy who’d bounded into Paris now over a decade ago--

Feeling quite at liberty, Athos pressed his forehead to d’Artagnan’s. Then the world slipped away and he fell peacefully to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> All right. I’m about to get a little personal, so feel free to skip. Only I feel like I can’t really say this to anybody in my “real life” and expect them to get it, so.
> 
> I feel like I owe/want to give a little explanation for my absence of late. The past two months have been really hard for me. But that’s not where the story begins. 
> 
> About 18 months ago I became seriously depressed. About six months ago I finally sought counseling, and about two months ago my counselor convinced me to see a psychiatrist and go on Prozac. Although I’d like to say this was a choice, I really had no choice. My counselor likes to call me “functional” like it’s high praise but really, I was _barely_ functional. And Prozac is working, a little, to improve that.
> 
> But here’s the thing. Like a fairytale villain, Prozac has taken something dear to me as payment for this.
> 
> I. Cannot. Fucking. Write. On. Prozac.
> 
> At first I thought my writer’s block was due to finishing the behemoth that was _Honest Songs_ , because these two things happened at roughly the same time. But I’ve come to understand that that isn’t the case. It’s hard to explain exactly what’s going on. I suppose it comes down to the emotional numbness that everybody warned me about. In all other aspects of my life, that’s been kind of a vacation for me. But writing, which used to be pretty much the only thing I enjoyed, now feels just as _okay_ as everything else. I feel limited. I feel like a painter given a dollar store paintbrush and a tiny tube of greyish brown and told to have at it. And it is _devastating_.
> 
> It isn't that I _want to_ want to write. I still just want to write. But I'm just so... _eh_? And that's so frustrating. Writing is everything to me. I started at eleven, nearly sixteen years ago, and never really stopped-- until now. Writing is not only my hobby but was, during the worst of my depression, the only thing that made me feel like a contributing member of society. And yes, I completely labor under the delusion that my original fiction might eventually replace my day job. Unlikely, I know, but it keeps me warm at night. 
> 
> So I don’t really know how better to express this loss than to say I feel like half a fucking person. Half of myself. This story took me over a month to write. In the past it would have taken me three days at most. I couldn’t even tell you what I’m doing with the time I used to spend writing. Nothing really, I guess. In behavior I’m probably more like a depressed person than ever, spending most of my free time literally just staring into space or reading what other people have written.
> 
> Stopping Prozac isn’t an option right now. (Although, if anything could make me stop, this would.) I guess I’ll just have to keep fighting-- a different fight then before but still, honestly, a fight for my life.
> 
> I’ll shut up now because I realize this isn’t what you clicked this link for but I guess… if anybody has any advice/encouragement… I will _gladly_ have it.


End file.
